


Verdant Hell

by Athanasa



Series: Turncoat [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Angst, Child Death, Civilian Casualties, Garlean, Gen, POV Second Person, Reconnaissance, Soldiers, The Black Shroud, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-07-02 19:01:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15802638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Athanasa/pseuds/Athanasa
Summary: The Shroud does not like outsiders. Outsiders do not like the Shroud. Logs don't like being stepped on.The worst thing is the knowledge that you'd do the same again. Even if you were able to see her face properly before the knife slid home.





	Verdant Hell

They say it's called the Black Shroud because no sun reaches the forest floor. It's true, for the most part. Dappled clearings are few and far between - you've spent the days in a perpetual green tinged twilight, shadows fuzzy. Without the clear sight of the sun, shadows misbehave. It's near impossible to get your bearings. At night it's even worse. Even your compass is affected – you've walked in a straight line and seen it wander from left to right.

It is an inhospitable place. The air is humid and thick with biting insects, and that's saying nothing of the wildlife prowling the forest floors. Creatures that should be skittish or docile turn aggressive in your presence, as if the very forest wants you dead or gone. Three weeks ago, you saw a squad mate's head caved in by a kick from a doe - a crater, crowned by shards of off-white bone. It should have been a routine patrol.

  
Anything and everything can (and will) try to kill you. There are even certain plants that will lie in wait, before somehow projectile vomiting high velocity pods at passing patrols. The husks burst on impact like tiny grenades, showering the unfortunate victim with seeds and sticky sap. This sap eats through skin and digests flesh, while the fetid stench seems to be a beacon for ravenous insects. Large insects.

  
Your first season in Eorzea has not been welcoming.

* * *

  
Today, your squad is tasked with scouting out a nearby ‘settlement'. Whether it's a permanent habitation or one of those temporary camps for the local miqo'te tribes is unclear – another reason for you to scout it out.  
An Elezen knife-fighter is on point. She holds her long knives held easily as she moves like liquid between the trees.

Even you, out on the flank, have a thick bladed long knife in your right hand, used for hacking through the undergrowth and dispatching wildlife. It is not a weapon you are familiar with, but it is at least close enough to a sword to be of some comfort. Your preferences are sword and bladed shield, spear and firearm. In that order. Oh, you can do damage with a knife – even kill – but you are not trained to utilize it as part of a unit. The thought of having to do so makes you uneasy.

You continue to move through the forest, all senses taught and tingling on high alert. Your head twists this way, chasing whispers. Bracken and small shrubs grab at your legs as you walk, but they're not alive. Not like those splitting plants are alive. It's not silent movement by any measure, but communication is strictly hand signals only. The swishing susurration of legs through undergrowth stops around you, and you jerk your head back to the squad leader. Nicknamed Farm, but you have no idea why. Hyur, female. All wiry muscle and scars, hair short cropped to her head. She holds a hand up, indicating incoming signals.

_Spread. Search. Return._

None of you sign acknowledgement. It's the same pattern you've been doing at various points today. And days before. Eyes and ears open, you each take a different bearing and head out short way, searching for tracks, signs, hints. You draw your combat knife from your belt in your left hand – if you find anything truly close, it's easier to strike with the short blade than the curved machete in your right.

A moss-covered green rock lies between two trees in front of you. Carefully, you move over to it -- the ground shifts under you. With a series of dull, tearing cracks, you fall through the surface of the forest floor. The scent of rotten wood, earth and loam fills your nostrils as you manage not to cry out even as you scrabble for purchase with your hands. You let go go the machete – but not your knife – in favour of trying to get to solid ground before you disappear entirely. The surface of the log falls away beneath your grasping fingers, disintegrating even as you claw at it.   
A flailing boot connects with something foreign inside the rotten husk of a tree. Something that squeaks like a person.

You waste no time kicking out in that direction once more. Your efforts are rewarded by another muffled squeak. You fold arms and allow yourself to fall, swinging as best you can to aim towards whatever or _whoever_ is in there. Your aim is correct - you land on top of… what? Something alive, squirming, _hissing_. Something that fights back - you kick towards a bright, metallic flash of motion in the corner of your vision.

The light is poor. Poorer than the ground above. And yet, you make out long ears, flat back against against short hair. Dappled shadow? No, facial markings. Face paint? Camouflage. Huge pupils in inhumanly yellow irises. Small, too. Not Garlean. No uniform. A mouth open, elongated canines showing. To scream, or bite? It's a threat. That's all you need to know, although the decision was already made. A swift jerk of your left arm and it's over. You force the blade under the jaw in a swift punching motion, parting the soft flesh. It grates off the bone at the roof of her mouth before settling into the brain.

You remain on body, head cocked slightly. Is she going to attack again? You watch, closely, as the light fades from those golden feline eyes and the breath wheezes out of those lungs. So small.

So. Small.

_No._

_It had to be done. We could not be found. If she's alerted the rest of her tribe, we could have lost men. I did what I had to. I did my job._

As you justify yourself, warm blood flows over your hand. It seeps into your gauntlets, into your lap. The dark imperial uniform shows it as little more than glistening patches. You stare into that face. Terrified, filled with blank horror. And so, so young.

It feels like an eternity you stand there, wedged against the inside of the log. You're not sure when you stood up with the corpse, but you did. Splinters of rotten wood fall from above land on your head and shoulders, but go unnoticed. That is, until one falls onto the still staring eyes of the miqo'te. The light level within your shared hole increases, and you still don't move. Female. She was female.

There's a tap on your shoulder and you look up, slowly. Not the instant jerk response you should do, just… numb. The breeze from the hole makes your face feel cool… damp, even. Silhouetted above, a head with pointed ears.

“… alright, Snow?” Juice, medicus. Friend. Occasional lover. You need a friend right now. You stare vaguely as a hand reaches down to you, not really seeing it. Ashy blonde eyebrows pull together on a grey face as he frowns slightly. “Out you come.” The hand insistently taps against your cheek. _Snap out of it._  
You blink slowly, then let the corpse drop from your arms and reach up to grab the offered limb. Slick blood has your hand slithering initially, but the grip strength of the two of you is strong. You plant your boots into the soft wood of the side of the log and – after a few false starts and a lot of scrabbling as it gives way under you – eventually haul yourself out. Straight into a welcoming pair of arms.

You blink again. Why is the medicus hugging you? You're not injured, are you?

The furious hiss of your squad leader can be heard to your right. “The fuck's going on?”

“Snow. Killed a kid.”

There's a hissing intake of breath from Farm. “Shit, first time?” She sounds both sympathetic and surprised.

“No - he's got a kid.”

Hearing it from Juice makes it real. It happened. And yet… hearing that it happened makes it easier to deal with. Not some twilight zone of _Did I or didn't I?_ You killed a child, at close range. You shoved the blade into her brain and watched the light drain from her eyes. It's concrete, it's solid. And now it's solid, you can take it and bury it far away. You shake your head quickly to clear your thoughts and gently push away from Juice.

“Thanks. I'm alright.” To reiterate, you signal for _Ready_.

Farm looks at you, eyes narrowed. You all know you're not alright with it, but what else are you going to do? Sit and have a little talk about life? You push on. “A'ight.”

You offer her a smart salute. She just rolls her eyes and gestures at the ground behind yourself. Pick up your weapon, soldier. Everyone's regrouped now. She turns, scowling and glaring to the squad as a whole. What you looking at? She raises a hand and – very snappily – signals for move out.

You move back to your flank position, only to find it's already been taken. There's a gap left, close to Farm and Juice. Snail nods towards it, indicating you should take it. You don't fuss, you've still got a patrol to finish.

_The worst thing is the knowledge that you'd do the same again. Even if you were able to see her face properly before the knife slid home._


End file.
